


RDR Writing Practice

by x0xll



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: but nothing too explict, i use john as a vent character im sorry, mentions of gore, one at a time, there's a few of these but yknow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x0xll/pseuds/x0xll
Summary: These are some of my favorite pieces from my RDR writing practice. They'll be posted at various times with no set schedule.





	1. Running

Having a horse under his legs was, without a doubt, the best thing he ever felt.

 

The steady rhythm of its movements, an up and down rocking matched by the echoes of hoof beats. The wind rushed past his ears, legs lifted him above the saddle as to not injure the animal’s back. He could go for days like this, muscles built up from a lifetime of running from the world. 

 

His home was nowhere, but everywhere all at once. He slept beside his horse, back towards the coals of his evening fire. His hat fell over his eyes, arms folded across his stomach and a rifle by his side. It was always a risk out here. Bandits, wolves, cannibals, he always had to be ready for the worst.

 

There were times when he hadn’t been, the scars embedded in his skin showed as much. He still felt the pain from the lines on his cheek but didn’t wish to be rid of them. He had faced the American lion and lived to tell his tale. 

 

He ate when the sun rose, Aurora guiding him through the motions of preparation. The horse was saddled when the plate had been emptied, its own meal taken from the desert grass.

 

He quickly became one with the animal as they tread over the scorching ground. 

 

But he was doomed to run from the devil’s riders.

 

They followed him, never leaving a moment of peace between him and the land. They each bore the face of those he had shot, their bodies still dripping blood over their dark mounts. It was only in his moments of terror that he became aware of the fresh blood soaking his clothes.

 

Twenty-one shots, a farewell fit for a soldier, but a firing squad fit for an army.

 

He felt the pain with every panicked movement, spurring the animal under his knees into action. The riders were on his tail, each of their screams reminding him of what he had left behind.

 

His family, to fend for themselves once again. His friends, to think that he lied all those times he promised to meet them again. His enemies, to leave them alive.

 

He had to keep running.

 

To have the riders catch up to him would be to join them. To add to their numbers and chase down a fellow sinner. He would run for eternity or join mobs of hunters.

 

But he had run through his entire life.

 

Now he would run through his entire death.


	2. Unnamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is troubled with nightmares.

The words cut like knives into his flesh, and when he looked down, he could see the bright red gushing from the wounds. Each hiss of “coward” and “weak” forming a new gash on his limbs. He sat on his knees, crumpled in on himself, unable to lift his weary arms enough to cover his ears. Heavy tears dripped into the too-white snow, and he was shaking from the terror.

“And you can’t even take a bit of criticism without breaking down, can you?”

He wanted to beg for it to stop, for their berating cries to be silenced, but he couldn’t open his mouth in opposition. He let out a sob, feeling the blood drip from his mouth. He knew they were right, as much as he hated it.

“You’re a sorry excuse of a man, John Marston, nothing but a whore’s son left to rot alone.”

His eyes fluttered up, landing on the crushed, bloody, ruined face of the man that had raised him. He mouthed the name Dutch, a silent plea to be saved. Dutch used to comfort him when he woke up in tears, back when he was just a boy. Why wasn’t Dutch protecting him now?

“Only one person in the world ever loved you, and she’s a whore herself!”

He would have snapped at such an insult to Abigail, but he only caved in on himself more. She was perfect, untouchable in her holiness, and he knew that, but Dutch’s disappointment in the woman he married made him feel sick. He was a failure, choosing to marry a woman that was by no means pure. 

“And you couldn’t even shoot me when I was standing right in front of you.”

“I loved you.”

He croaked out a phrase this time, blood splattering from his lips. He was choking on it, there was so much. He spoke only the truth, but not a whole truth. His love was not in the past, it carried into the present. He knew very well that he loves Dutch, even as the man cuts him open with cruel words.

“I don’t want you.”

John’s eyes flew open, a sharp breath entering his lungs. It was dark, and he couldn’t move, and the air was being pushed from his chest, and a face emerged from the black. It was mangled, rotting, smiling down at him as he fought gravity for air. He was choking, and he felt blood rising up in his throat, threatening to push out of his mouth and drown him. The face opened its mouth, maggots spilled from its lips, it laughed, cackled in John’s face. He wanted to look away, he wanted to close his eyes, its clawed fingers pulled his eyelids open and held his face still, it spoke. It told him disgusting things. Its face shifted. It looked like Bill, it looked like Javier, it looked like Arthur, like all his brothers. It taunted him. It called him names. It grabbed his face, called his name, pulled on his hand, pressed on his chest, called his name, called his name, called his name --

“John!”

Abigail was leaning over him, a frightened look on her face. She was clutching onto him, looking into his eyes with panic. He took a deep breath, blinked a few times, sat up, ran his hands through his sweat-soaked hair, pulled his knees against his chest.

“It was Dutch again, wasn’t it?”

He nodded.

“And the monster?”

Another nod.

Abigail was silent, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him close, she covered his ear with her palm, and his other with her temple. There wasn’t much else to do. He was still shaking, just enough that she could feel it. He focused on breathing, clenching his eyes shut as he took in and released shuddering breath after shuddering breath. She knew not to touch his arms or mouth when he was like this, just to keep him separated from the noise of the world. 

She moved her hand off his ear.

“You’re safe, John. You’re safe and I love you.”

He let out a final sob, followed by a stronger breath, and tangled his fingers with her.

“I know.”


End file.
